Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Lock, Stock & Two Strands of Curse Words

On Sunday night, I peeled myself off the sofa after watching sixty minutes of DVRed Law & Order:SVU, thrilled to have caught Season One's first episode, back when Mariska Hargitay had fuller cheeks, Christopher Meloni had two facial expressions, and the script served up clunkers like "I think a dead molestee can be handled by one detective." As soon as Dick Wolf's name rolled onscreen, I nudged the Boxerbeast--who passed out well before Elliot and Olivia started testing out their sexual tension--and shoved him toward the door for his last leg lifting of the night.

Since it was approaching 11, my wardrobe was from the "I've Completely Given Up" collection and featured:
--Well worn Beavis & Butthead pajama pants
-- This t-shirt, featuring a woman embracing an oversized hotdog beside the tastefully written phrase "Big Weenies Are Better"
-- UGG boots
-- A Thermacare back wrap
-- A set of throw pillow-patterned face trenches that made me look like Freddy Krueger's kid sister
-- Gingivitis

Things I Was Not Wearing:
-- A bra
-- Underpants
-- A smile as my umbrella

We strolled around outside, he liberally grafittied the side of the building with the contents of his water dish and turning the corner toward his fave place to, um, release the hostages, we walked directly into the high beams from a local news crew's camera. Standing on the sidewalk was an over-eyeshadowed Ann Taylor display, reporting live with a late-breaking story unfortunately illustrated with my Beavis-covered ass as I bent over to collect a handful of fresh colon sculptures. HELLO, TRI-COUNTY VIEWING AREA! I hope you weren't eating!

Before he could pause to self-clean his wiener on camera, I yanked his leash toward the lobby of the building and thought "Well, that's probably the worst thing that could happen tonight".

Foreshadowing can be a dick sometimes.

I caught the elevator with one of my nicer neighbors, a girl with oversized Bratz doll eyes and the superpower to always look adorable, even when--like that night--she's dressed like Crazy Horse-era Neil Young. She'd come downstairs to collect a pizza, courtesy of my least favorite delivery guy who looks like a Bond villain and never hands over your calzone without an unsolicited warning that cell phones cause brain tumors.

"Dude freaks me out," she said as the doors slid together.

"Did he remind you ab--"

"About how using my cell is incrementally killing me? Yeah."

"Come for the extra cheese, stay for the cancer." We stepped into the hallway, stalked by the scent of grease and pepperoni which proved that my iPhone hadn't incinerated my limbic system yet. Suck it, Pizza Scientist.

Saying g'night to my neighbor, I grabbed the door handle and...nothing. I'd managed to lock myself out.1 I shouted a string of words that gave Jesus a creative middle name and jogged to the other side of the building to ask Crazy Horse if I could borrow her phone to call a locksmith. She, of course, agreed, balancing the pizza box on one skinny denim'ed knee while she rummaged through her purse. I took the phone, punched a number and instead of 4-1-1-ing, it spat out a Kelly Clarkson song.

I had to slink back to her door to ask "where the dial-y parts" were.

I am a thousand years old.


Cut to: a brief convo with the all-night locksmith who told me it would be another twenty minutes before one of his 'technicians' would roll up to the building so the Boxerbeast, my sad cotton-covered boobs and I went back to the lobby to kill time by counting the numbers on the post office boxes (me), trying to impregnate an UGG boot (dog), and looking like a pair of wadded-up golf socks (boobs).

Since my watch was trapped inside my apartment with my keys and my dignity, I had no idea how much time passed before the 'smith rolled up in a battered van that would've had the voice of Nicolas Cage in a cartoon recreation of the night. He popped the tailgate, tucked a toolbox under each arm and walked into the building. "You wait for me, yes?" he asked, stepping onto the elevator. I nodded, mashing the door close button with both hands as as the Boxerbeast buried his face in dude's Wrangler-clad crotch.

"He no bites, I'm hoping" he said, looking less uncomfortable than I would've liked. Rahman was the name stitched on his oversized shirt and I assumed it was a custom order. "I like a hotdogs too" he said, tipping his chin toward my t-shirt and spinning a pencil between his fingers. I smiled weakly, silently praying for death.

The doors opened and we made the ten step stroll to my apartment. "This shouldn't take too long", I told him, reeling in the Boxerbeast before he could bob for dick again. "It's just the lock in the handle". On the word handle, I rattled the knob as a visual aid and THE DOOR PUSHED OPEN.

I was shocked, involuntarily wearing an expression seen in Infomercial studio audiences right after they see a kitchen knife cut a tire in half. "I SWEAR it was locked. For real." He looked unconvinced, like I'd lured him here to recreate the opening scenes of every middle-of-the-night Cinemax flick.

"My neighbor saw it!"

Another pause as he looked down the empty hallway.

"She's probably sleeping now. Or she's dead from a brain tumor."

He shrugged. "Good news for you. But I still charge for servicing call." He flipped the carbon and wrote out an invoice for $45 which I paid for with a personal check, writing "For Being a Dumbass" in the notes section. He ignored it, spelling his name for me letter-by-letter including an 'R like Robert, A like apple, H like hot dog...' designation, reminding me to run this shirt through the shredder. He tucked the check into his pocket, grabbed his unopened toolboxes, and took off toward the elevator. "Hey, maybe you have a ghosts?" he shouted, pressing the Down button.

Thanks, Rahman. I was worried that I was going to waste the night by sleeping instead of staying awake to battle a set of restless demons. Hopefully some clowns with hands made of music boxes will swing by for drinks and night terrors and an all-night shit-yourself-with-fear party. Hooray!

Back to the door, which had me beyond freaked out. That handle was legit locked when I tested it, so why--twenty minutes later--does it nudge itself open? "Go find the killer, Pigpen," I said, urging him toward the darkened bathroom. I grabbed my autographed Rico Petrocelli bat and jabbed it through the shower curtain, hoping that the "Impossible Dream" inscription wouldn't get smudged if I had to put a skylight in someone's skull.

I tentatively investigated the entire apartment for the better part of an hour, looking under the beds and in the hall closet, before Googling "Can rapists hide in a hot water heater?". When everything turned up empty, I looked at the bat in one hand and the phone in the other and realized I was a pan of burned popcorn away from being the intro to Scream. Although at least Drew Barrymore got to wear a bra.

1 While sad and expensive, this isn't nearly as lame as the time last year when I locked myself IN the apartment.


FunnyGal KAT said...

Well, at least if you have ghosts, they're the kind that are concerned about your security? I mean, they could be the kind that kill you in your slee-- uh, nevermind. I'm sure it was the concerned kind.

Smart as Shat said...

I thought that the least I could do was to add a comment so the heading would change from "1 people..." to "2 people..". You don't need help looking like a dumbass. I KEED! I KEED! Everyone has locked themselves out.

This was a very entertaining read, full of comedic gems that had me looking for the star to click (DAMN YOU TWITTER! DAMN YOU TO HELL!). It's pretty mysterious & creepy. It left me wondering if you have a guardian stalker who helpfully unlocked the door for you with his key. Nah. It's probably a helpful poltergeist. Just remember to walk into the light. All children welcome. Walk into the light.

The Imaginary Reviewer said...

Ahahaha! Brilliant as always.

I have the best answer when weirdoes tell me that my cell phone/iPod/hat is a lethal brain-killing machine. I say the following:

"No it isn't."

They really struggle to come back from that blow, I can tell you.

JustinS said...

Thank you for keeping the all important locksmith sector of the economy runnin' solid.

And yes. You were just a returning neighbor and wardrobe malfunction away from some of my best 16-year-old-boy-sneaking-up-to-watch-cable memories.

jen said...

That is too weird! I suppose that's the benefit of my husband always second-guessing me and always suggesting helpful things like "Are you sure?" "Did you make sure it's plugged in" Etc..

*Akilah Sakai* said...

Bobbing for dick, eh?
'Nuff said...

You're brave. I would have sent my dog in, closed the door behind the pooch and ran away for a good hour. See, I don't really get along with ghosts.

los_tartist said...

In my apartment it's generally understood that my roommate is in charge of the keys for both of us. I keep snacks hidden out back for when I have to wait for him to get back and let me in. You're hilarious. And the locked in story is just classic.

Mike said...

You could have had the locksmith take a picture for us!

Herding Cats said...

I really want that shirt....

Glaven Q. Heisenberg said...

I smiled weakly, silently praying for death.

O, right. Jesus is going to come to your aid now, after you've creatively middle-named Him!

He hates that, sister. HATES it. He'd answer the prayers of a televangelist or a Methodist first.

By the way, the "H." in "Jesus H. Christ" stands for "Horatio" and I wouldn't make fun of that, either, because He hates that.

Plus, it's a silent "H", so when people take His name in vain they should really say: "Jesus . Christ!"

They never do.

He hates that.

Kelsey said...

You'll appreciate this- when I was a doe-eyed little college freshman, I went to take a shower in the group showers, and when I was finished, I headed back to my room and realized I had LOCKED MYSELF OUT. So I had to go all the way down to the front desk and ask for my spare. IN AN EFFING TOWEL. AT 2 IN THE AFTERNOON. So Yeah. So I feel your pain.

inflammatory writ said...

Upon reading the words "Beavis covered ass", I spit Diet Dr. Pepper on my keyboard.

Anyone who owns Beavis and Butthead PJ pants is awesome. UGG boots or no.

gramazon3 said...

I had that same shirt, like a million years ago, only it was a white tank top.

Man I loved that shirt.

Non Sequitur Chica said...

Holy crap that is a funny story for us....not so funny for you.

Luthy said...

At least the locksmith didn't think you were trying to hit on him. Then force his way into your apartment and lay seductively on your bed.

With Boxerbeast.

Mermanda said...

I can raise you and Kelsey one bad memory: I was also a freshman in college when the fire alarm went off. One problem? I was in the effing shower. I had to go stand outside with 300 of my closest co-eds... in a towel. Dripping wet. That was really a good time.

P.S. Ghosts are not so bad. One stole my slipper once... but they gave it back. So I'm fine with it.

Michael said...


Watch this. You'll feel better.

J-Money said...

FunnyGal KAT: Thank you for giving me something new to fear. Or new-ish, since I’m always concerned that some restless spirit will smother me with the corner of the blanket while I’m dreaming about chasing rabbits or something.

Smart as Shat: THIS HOUSE IS CLEAR. For real, I checked. Sorry, Carol Ann.

The Imaginary Reviewer: For some reason, that makes me think of “The Argument Clinic” from Monty Python. So that makes it awesome.

JustinS: Unfortunately for your fantasies, the only neighbor who returned during this whole ordeal was the elderly blob who sings Patsy Cline songs in the elevator and hisses at my dog. Not as hot as either of us would hope for.

jen: Perhaps your husband could occasionally remind me not to be a bonehead.

*Akilah Sakai*: Trust me, I’m not welcoming demons, ghosts, etc into my house either. Not even if they promise to bring me a cheese tray from Fresh Market.

los_tartist: I’ll be hiding some snacks in the janitor’s closet just in case this happens again. How long does cottage cheese keep without refrigeration?

Mike: There wasn’t a single part of that night that should’ve been memorialized on film. Trust me on this.

Herding Cats: I’ve considered putting it on eBay. Along with several hundred other pieces from my t-shirt collection currently weighing down the top shelf in my closet. How many Kenny Rogers garments does one person need anyway?

Glaven Q. Heisenberg: For the past 5 minutes, I’ve been trying to say “Horatio” without pronouncing the H. I sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins ‘Ello, Jesus ‘oratio Christ.

Kelsey: Ouch. I would’ve just stayed in the bathroom and waited until graduation.

inflammatory writ: Awesome. That makes two of us who share that opinion…

gramazon3: It is a killer tee. I wore it again yesterday—cause that’s how I roll—and it attracted some quizzical stares at the gym. Or maybe people just wondered why I insist on shouting every time I lift anything heavier than a soda can.

Non Sequitur Chica: Oh, it’ll be funny eventually. Like when that check bounces.

Luthy: Thanks for putting that thought in my head. I’ll spend the rest of the morning poking at my brain with a Q-Tip.

Mermanda: As much as the fire drill thing sucks, I’m most concerned about what the ghost did with your slipper…

Michael: I like you so very much.

B said...

omg girl, that was effing hilarious! :)

jumblejo said...

Hey, at least you didn't have to destroy your own property to get back in; my dumba--(I mean much-adored) roommate decided to shred the screen on our bathroom window, then break the window, in order to get in when she'd locked herself out one night. The best part? I was inside. Awake.
(She's not allowed to drink tequila without me anymore.)

But I like the helpful friendly neighborhood guardian stalker that unlocked your door with his key. Golly, they're nice, aren't they?

emmysuh said...

Hah, I'd forgotten about the locking yourself incident, thanks for the reminder.

This is seriously one of my paranois. Anytime I think I'm locked out or can't find my keys, I still check the door or look in my pockets a BILLION times, because nothing is worse than what just happened to you. You're welcome.

I'm also a little sad that you didn't have a Rahman-Jmoney-Boxerbeast Cinemax Threeosome adventure.

Belle Ecrivaine said...

You'd think that by now, in your case, you'd learn that going out dressed like a bum means terrible and embarassing things are going to happen.

Deidre said...

Once I had a boyfriend lock me out and him in. Talk about awkward.

Its a good thing there was another door.

lacochran said...

"H like hotdog..."


I, too, have attacked innocent shower curtains looking for crazed killers.

G+D said...

I'm about to be fired from laughing my ass off so loudly instead of working. Which means I'll soon be unable to afford my mortgage. Can I interest you in a roommate? I minored in ghostbusting in college.

No. That's a lie.

But I do know how to inspect a water heater for rapists.